


in sorrow, in splendour

by Lediona



Series: A Royal Night Out [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (again), First Love, First Meetings, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Royalty AU, commoner!John, prince!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 18:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20532893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lediona/pseuds/Lediona
Summary: It's 1952, and the nation is mourning the loss of their King.John honours him, as is his duty, and then receives an unexpected letter.





	in sorrow, in splendour

**Author's Note:**

> Since the ending of 'we have never seen a greater day than this' was unsatisfactory for both you and me, I always intended to write a story exploring how John and Sherlock found their way back to each other, so...here it is!
> 
> Thank you as ever to my fabulous betas @zigster-ao3 and @eternaljohnlock - you critiques and delighted 'omgs!' help me through!

“When the death of the King was announced to us yesterday morning there struck a deep and solemn note in our lives which, as it resounded far and wide, stilled the clatter and traffic of twentieth-century life in many lands, and made countless millions of human beings pause and look around them. A new sense of values took, for the time being, possession of human minds, and mortal existence presented itself to so many at the same moment in its serenity and in its sorrow, in its splendour and in its pain, in its fortitude and in its suffering.”  
Winston Churchill  
9th February 1952

~~15th February 1952~~

It was raining.

John could hear the patter of raindrops hitting the windowpane as he lay in bed, anticipating the harsh ring of his alarm. Outside, the darkness would linger for many hours yet. 

From his cocoon of blankets, John could just make out the faint outline of the window through the gloom of his bedroom. He hadn’t drawn the curtains last night, which was stupid really, considering how draughty his flat was, but he had been dead on his feet from a day at the hospital and had fallen into bed without going through his normal nighttime routine. 

Despite the weariness in his bones, and the old ache in his shoulder, he couldn’t fall back asleep. His exhaustion was compounded by the sense of grief that had swept the nation over the last week. The melancholy darkness of the early morning was fitting for the occasion really. 

John sighed.

He rolled over and switched on the utilitarian lamp on the bedside table. The light was overly bright after staring into the dark room for the last thirty minutes. The hands of the clock told him it was only five-eighteen; twelve minutes until his alarm was due to go off. The thought of laying there any longer was unappealing so John threw back his blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed, shivering as his bare feet made contact with the cold wooden floor. 

There was a strict timetable for the day’s activities and John was due at his post along the funeral procession route at half-six. Even with rising early, he would need to be swift with his own preparations if he was to make it across the city from his small cottage next to the hospital to Piccadilly. 

After a quick wash and shave, John threw together a measly breakfast of toast and two rashers of bacon. He brought his cup of tea back through to the bedroom, and began to pull on his full dress uniform, the navy fabric stiff from lack of wear. Fitting the silk sash about his waist, John sought out his shoes and gave them one last buff so that they would shine as brilliantly as possible on this gloomy day. The King had been a kind man and John wanted to look his best to honour him. 

At the thought, John said a brief prayer, as he had done frequently since the news of his death had been announced, in memory of the King and for Sherlock in his mourning. 

Whatever Sherlock may have implied about his relationship with the King during their adventures on V-E Day, John was certain that he loved and admired his father immensely and the loss was surely difficult to bear. John could only hope that Sherlock had the support of his family right now. The idea of him drifting helpless and alone during this time was too horrible to consider, but he could see Sherlock isolating himself, not letting anyone in to share the burden of his grief. 

John shook himself, trying to get free from thoughts of Sherlock, which had plagued him ceaselessly of late. He had thought more about the young prince in the last week than he had since the direct aftermath of their night together. In the intervening seven years, John thought he had done quite a good job of putting any fanciful notions of more adventures with Sherlock out of his mind and carrying on with his life. He was a doctor now, and he’d moved up significantly in rank, now Lieutenant-Colonel in charge of the Royal Herbert Hospital. He had even dated occasionally, and at one point considered proposing to one of his girlfriends, but the less said about that misguided relationship, the better. Regardless of the failings in his personal life, he had, in fact, built a life, and one he was proud of. 

Now, all those feelings he’d thought he had buried were bubbling up to the surface again. That night with Sherlock was one of the happiest of his life, and he would be lying if he said that he hadn’t sought other people and situations that would mimic, even to the slightest degree, that feeling of running through the streets of London with Sherlock. Nothing compared, however, so he contented himself with simpler aspirations, a life shaped by the sharp routines of an army hospital.

This morning, however, when he would usually be preparing to head over to the ward for his morning rounds, John was now readying himself to honour the departed King and the father of the most intriguing man he had ever met. 

***

It was bloody freezing. Standing in the cold pre-dawn, John was grateful for the white gloves covering his hands as he looked at the infantry men around him in their crisp green uniforms, gloveless. The rain had stopped and the sky had just started to lighten and they’d only been in position for forty-five minutes, with countless hours ahead of them. He shouldn’t complain, he knew, but a warm cup of tea in his office sounded mighty appealing just then.

The crowds had already started to gather, which at least gave the soldiers something to do, answering the same five questions repeatedly and keeping mourners on the pavement to clear the route for the funeral procession. John was surprised by the number of people already out, and the size of the crowd would only grow over the next few hours. In spite of the cold, the people of London and farther afield were turning out to honour their King. 

If he was honest, had his job not required it of him and had he never met Sherlock, John doubted he would have turned out for the occasion. Instead, he would have probably holed up in his sitting room with a cuppa and tuned the radio to listen to the coverage as the procession moved from Westminster to Paddington Station. A royal funeral was an intense, multi-day affair and John would have felt overwhelmed by the very idea of taking part in it, in however small a way. 

Nevertheless, it was his duty and here he stood, freezing on the street corner in Piccadilly on a bitter morning in February, waiting for the carriage carrying the body of King George VI to pass. Somewhere amongst the procession would be Sherlock, and the thought of seeing him in the flesh for the first time in nearly seven years warmed him. It didn’t matter that there would be many meters in between them and that John would be lost amongst the sea of humanity out to pay respects. He would catch a glimpse of the prince and that would be enough to settle some of his worry.

Well, he hoped it would, anyway.

***

Big Ben started ringing promptly at nine-thirty to begin the long march from Westminster. The bell sang out mournfully for over ten minutes, ringing once for each year of the King’s life. From the other direction, John could hear the artillery salutes being fired from the Tower. 

It was nearing ten-thirty by the time the procession reached Piccadilly Circus. Unlike most parades, this one was preceded by the synchronised silence of thousands of people, broken only by the unsettling echo of horse hooves against the wet cobbles in the distance. John saw a flag bearer on horseback round the corner onto Coventry Street and straightened his posture by reflex.

“Look sharp!” he ordered the soldiers around him, and the ranks shifted to attention, a ripple of movement emanating away from him.

As the horse rider drew nearer, the heavy silence of the crowd intensified, thickening around them like a layer of fog. The rider was followed by a contingent of field marshals and admirals from the Army, Air Force and Navy. They marched solemnly in rows of four and John recognised his own field marshal, Edmund Ironside, in the ranks. 

They were followed by a contingent of Calvary riders, at least thirty of them in formation, the clip-clop of horses' hooves the only sound to be heard in the echoing square. Then came the Royal Scots pipe and drum corps, silent and carrying their instruments. Perhaps they would play once they reached the station to send the King on his way to his final resting place at Windsor.

Behind them, the sight of the horse-drawn carriage that followed caused a lump to form in John’s throat. It suddenly seemed nearly impossible for a man as great as the King to be consigned to that small box. John remembered him as an impressive figure, both in stature and in presence, and the coffin that rested on the carriage seemed too small for him. He could only get glimpses of it between the members of the King’s Guard who marched on either side, but the sight of the crown resting atop it gave John the feeling of immense sadness and finality.

Following the carriage bearing the body of the King, came two riders, sitting tall and stoic in their saddles, and John’s breath caught as he recognised the Princes Henry and William. 

Mycroft rode nearest. He had always looked serious and disapproving to John, but time and grief had etched another layer of severity into his features. He was about to be crowned as the next King of the United Kingdom, so perhaps some of that was warranted. 

More importantly, beside Mycroft rode Sherlock. Unlike his brother, who was emanating a proper sense of decorum for the occasion, Sherlock’s face was absolutely blank, his long limbs stiff in the red wool of his uniform and his wild curls hidden away under the plumed helmet on his head. Although it had been a number of years since they had last seen each other, John remembered those eyes flashing brightly with whichever strong emotion Sherlock had at any given moment, no matter how he might try to suppress them. Now, however, John could not tell what he was thinking at all and it scared him.

He’d hoped to be reassured by the sight of his Prince, but that wasn’t the case. All he wanted to do was rush out of the crowd and shield Sherlock from the onslaught of the nation’s grief, reflected back at him from every mourner along the road. Shaking his head to clear it of such an impossible plan, John focused on sending sympathetic thoughts through the ether with the ridiculous idea that they may reach Sherlock and give him some comfort.

John’s eyes remained focused on Sherlock’s face, hoping beyond reason that the Prince would look his way, but all too soon, the princes had passed John’s post and he was staring at the back of Sherlock’s head as they continued down Piccadilly. 

He didn’t remember much of what followed. The Queen most certainly followed her sons, but John was too absorbed with his concern for Sherlock to pay much attention to her or any of the other mourners that made up the rest of the mile-long procession. 

And then, it was over.

People had been gathered for hours and yet it took twenty minutes for the funeral procession to pass through Piccadilly Circus. Despite the abruptness, it seemed that the sight of the coffin had helped to console the King’s subjects who had turned out to pay respects. John felt it within himself, too, despite not being the most sentimental of men. 

Watching as the crowds dispersed, John dismissed the soldiers under his command so that they could return to their barracks for some lunch and rest. Instead of immediately returning to the hospital himself, however, John wandered through the streets towards Blackheath, lost in a confusing tumult of memories, daydreams and worry. 

Sherlock, he prayed, composing a letter of condolence in his head, wherever you are, I hope it brought you some peace to see how loved your father was by his people. To lose a parent is never easy, but especially one as respected and admired as your father, and although you might deny it, I know you felt all of those things for him as well. He was a great man, Sherlock, and I am so terribly sorry for your loss. These words seem so inadequate, but they’re all I have. Promise me that you won’t push away your brother and mother in the days ahead; they need you just as much as you need them, and may you find strength and comfort in each other. I wish I could do more than pay my respects from afar, but it's not my place. Please know you are in my thoughts and in my heart, now and always.

~~8th April 1952~~

“Sir?”

John looked up from the paper he was studying, listing all the new arrivals to the hospital. They had already taken in over forty additional soldiers this year and a further twelve arrived yesterday, pushing the hospital to near full capacity. With the ongoing fighting in the East, it was almost certain that the Royal Herbert would receive more patients in upcoming weeks and John was trying to figure out how they could all be accomodated. 

“Yes, Ashford?”

The tall captain stepped into John’s office and removed his hat. “I’ve settled Meyers and Stryuk in Ward 1 as instructed, Sir, and the rest have been placed in Ward 4 to convalesce. Meyers awoke as we transferred him but he was coherent and understood his new circumstances, asking if we’d update his mother. I will ensure a telegram is sent later today. Sryuk, however, is slipping in and out of consciousness. He’s talking but not making much sense. I suggested the nurses keep a close eye on him over the next forty-eight hours.”

John nodded. “Very good, Ashford. I’ll make my rounds shortly to meet them all. Can you and Taunton assess the state of the storage room down by the mess hall to see if it could be cleared and used as another ward, perhaps for those about to be transferred out?”

“Very good, Sir.” 

With a salute, Captain Ashford departed, closing the door behind him and trapping John in with the ever-growing stack of papers on his desk. The administrative hassle of managing a hospital was his least favourite part of the job. He was rubbish at it, to be honest, and was grateful for the assistance of the secretary that had been assigned to the hospital when the British Army joined the war in Korea. Despite her help, John was still burdened with seemingly endless accounts, patient lists, reports of supply levels and order forms, enquiries from families, and on and on. The sight of all the paper made him yearn for active duty just to escape it.

Restless, he placed the intake list on his desk and rose, deciding to visit Ward 1, where the most critically injured soldiers were housed, earlier than usual. Nurse O’Reilly would not be pleased with him, but he needed to do something and checking on the new arrivals was a more productive alternative to stewing at his desk.

Straightening his uniform jacket, he turned to locate his hat when he heard a knock at the door. 

“Enter,” he called out. 

The door opened and, instead of one of his fellow doctors or a nurse, a messenger stepped into the office. John took in his uniform and noted the royal insignia on his cap, his heart leaping in his chest.

“Lieutenant-Colonel Watson?”

John cleared his throat. “Yes, that’s me.”

The man nodded perfunctorily. “I have a message for you, Sir.” Without further ado, he opened the messenger bag hanging over his shoulder and removed a cream-coloured envelope, stepping forward to hold it out to John. 

With reluctance, John took the envelope.

The messenger gave him a final nod, said, “Very good, Sir,” and departed the room as swiftly as he had entered. Royal messengers were incredibly expeditious.

Alone once again, John took a moment to turn the envelope over in his hands. It was made of fine, heavy paper, nothing like the standard Army-issue stationary that he employed on a daily basis. On the front, the envelope read, “Lieutenant-Colonel Watson” in slanted, narrow script, the handwriting unfamiliar to John.

The letter made him feel anxious and his hands began to sweat, leaving ugly fingerprints behind on the paper. A letter delivered by a royal messenger surely had something to do with Sherlock.

Well, you’ll only know if you open it, you cowardly lion, he thought and forced himself to turn the envelope over. He worked a finger under the flap to prise it open, but then thought better of it and retrieved the letter opener from his desk. He couldn’t open a potential letter from Sherlock and leave a ragged edge behind.

He was proud that his hands remained steady as he cleanly sliced open the envelope, removing the letter and unfolding it in one smooth motion. He did, however, give himself a moment to breathe, closing his eyes and gathering his courage, before looking down.

Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t the five simple lines that greeted him.

Dear John,  
While this letter is undoubtedly a surprise, I very much hope you will join me for tea tomorrow at two o’clock at my apartments in Kensington Palace.   
Yours sincerely,  
Sherlock

John stared at the letter, shocked not only by its lack of insight into why Sherlock was suddenly writing to him but also by the very prospect of seeing the man again after so much time had passed since they last met. What the hell could this possibly be about? Why was he being contacted and why now? 

Refolding the letter and placing it back in the envelope, John stuffed it in the top drawer of his desk, out of sight and to be considered at another time. He felt wrong-footed, strangely angry, and not a little bit excited.

He strode purposefully towards the door, pausing to run a hand over his jacket before wrenching it open to begin his rounds. 

~~9th April 1952~~

Kensington Palace loomed in front of him, stately and grand. A stark reminder of John’s own station. 

John couldn’t believe he was here, but of course he bloody was. He had warred with himself all night over whether or not he should turn up, but in the end he had come because he found it impossible to resist. After his morning rounds, John had informed the hospital that he would be out for the afternoon and returned to his cottage to change into his tan suit, for some reason, feeling it would be strange to turn up in his uniform. 

He was early. It was only half past one, but John was thankful to have some extra time to calm his nerves before he presented himself at the gate. 

It was a warm afternoon, one of those that indicated that the bitter winds of winter were firmly behind them for another year. The tree-lined avenue in front of the palace was quiet but for a few ambling pedestrians, out enjoying the sunshine. The trees themselves appeared to be rejoicing in the warmer weather as well, with small green buds visible on the branches, soon to be a leafy green canopy. 

After dawdling for another ten minutes, John took a deep breath and stepped off the kerb to cross the street. There were two royal guards stationed outside an archway leading into a spacious courtyard within the palace. John approached one of them.

“Can I help you, sir?” the guard asked, formal and disciplined.

John drew himself up, suddenly self-conscious in his civilian clothes. “Lieutenant-Colonel John Watson here to see Prince William.”

The guard looked him over and nodded. “One moment, please.” After a precise about-face, the guard disappeared through the gate to make an enquiry about John’s appointment. He returned a few minutes later. “If you will step through to the courtyard, Lieutenant Glover will show you the way to His Royal Highness’ apartments. Good day, sir.”

John did as he was bid and met the other guard as he entered the courtyard, a wide paved space with few adornments and one vehicle parked over on the right side. 

“Lieutenant-Colonel, this way, sir.” Lieutenant Glover was surprisingly young, but he had an air of indefatigable confidence as he led John to a door across the courtyard. Opening the door, he gestured for John to precede him into a luxurious vestibule. A grand staircase rose in front of them, covered with plush red carpeting, up which Lieutenant Glover led him. Just down a short corridor, they stopped outside an ornate door and the lieutenant raised his hand to knock, a succession of three quick raps against the paneling.

The door was opened by a footman, who looked enquiringly at Lieutenant Glover.

“Please inform His Royal Highness that Lieutenant-Colonel Watson is here to see him.”

With a nod, the footman disappeared. In his absence, John found himself wanting to fidget but he refused to give in to the nerves, instead holding himself at attention.

A few minutes later, the door opened again. “Follow me, Sir,” the footman said, stepping back against the wall to create space for John to enter the room. 

The footman led him through an elegant foyer, their footsteps sounding loud on the intricately-laid parquet floors. The space was much more simply decorated than John had expected, given the ornate decor of the staircase and corridor leading to Sherlock’s apartments. Above the white paneling, the walls were painted a subtle green instead of papered and were adorned by a collection of small paintings, lit by the warm light from pairs of sconces. A glass vase of white roses and greenery sat upon a console table. 

Leaving the foyer, they passed a series of imposing closed doors until the footman drew up at one near the end of the corridor, which he stepped through without hesitation and announced John to the room. 

“Lieutenant-Colonel Watson.”

John’s skin broke out in goose pimples, a shiver running down his spine. He felt slightly lightheaded. 

On the other side of this door was Sherlock. 

Drawing his shoulders back with forced determination, John entered the room. His eyes were immediately drawn to where Sherlock was rising from a writing desk in the far corner. He looked much more calm and composed than John felt. Placing a pen on top of the papers on the desk, Sherlock buttoned his jacket with practiced ease and turned his head towards John. 

Their eyes met and John felt a shock of familiar electricity run through him. While he his face had matured and his long limbs had gained muscle and grace, Sherlock’s eyes were exactly the same. Grey and searching, seeming to peer into John’s mind, to all the thoughts he tried to keep hidden. Grief still lingered in their depths, the recognition of which made John’s heart ache. 

“Hello, John,” Sherlock greeted him, his voice rumbling lower than John remembered it, but then Sherlock had still been a gangly youth when they’d last met. 

“Sherlock, hello.” John was impressed with how calm he sounded. “It’s good to see you.”

Sherlock lips tipped up into a slight smile. “And you, John.” Turning to the footman, he said, “Walters, please have our tea brought through now that the Lieutenant-Colonel has arrived.”

“Very good, Sir,” the footman replied, backing out of the room and closing the door. 

Once he’d gone, Sherlock approached, holding out his hand. “It is truly good to see you. Thank you for coming.”

After a brief hesitation, John shook Sherlock’s large hand, warm, sure fingers engulfing his own. “You were correct. Receiving your letter was a surprise. It’s been quite a long time.”

Sherlock hesitated. “I feel like I should apologise, for writing to you after so many years. I cannot imagine what you must have thought upon receiving my letter, but I am glad that you have come. I confess, I was not sure that you would.”

At witnessing Sherlock's vulnerability, some of John's anxieties swept away on an exhale of utter relief. “Well, you weren’t alone—I wasn’t sure I’d come either, but I figured it would be a bit not good to ignore a summons from Your Royal Highness.”

Although he had meant it as a joke, Sherlock did not appear to take it as such. Worry creased his forehead as he said, “It was an invitation, not a summons. You would have been free to refuse!” 

John stepped forward. “No, Sherlock, it’s fine. Honestly. I’m not quite sure why I’m here, but I am glad to be.”

“Oh. Well, that. . . is good.” Sherlock appeared to be about to say something else, when the door opened and Walters, the footman, entered pushing a tea trolley. Momentarily distracted, Sherlock gestured to a carved, marble-topped table with two wingback chairs positioned in front of a window overlooking a garden. 

John eased himself into the chair, feeling tentative once more, and shook out the fine linen napkin to place across his lap. 

Walters placed a sterling silver tray of finger sandwiches and cakes on the table and began pouring tea into two gold-rimmed porcelain tea cups from an etched silver pot. He glanced up at John enquiringly, and John realised he was subtly asking how he took his tea.

“Just milk for me, please.”

With a nod, Walters continued fussing, adding a heaping teaspoon of sugar to Sherlock’s before placing the cups of tea at their elbows and wheeling the trolley away to rest near the wall.

Sherlock was silent through the proceedings, until Walters stepped back to unobtrusively hover in case he was needed again, white-gloved hands clasped neatly behind his back. 

“That will be all, Walters.” 

The footman nodded and quickly exited the room. Once again, John and Sherlock were alone. 

John sipped his tea, unsure of what to say now. He was reminded of the last time they sat with a pot of tea between them, brewed by Sherlock himself in the wee hours of the morning at Harry’s small flat in Battersea. How different this table seemed in contrast, with its beautiful silver and porcelain china, everything matching and polished to perfection, and a footman attending to the specific ceremony of afternoon tea. Although John’s cottage at the hospital was quite comfortable, and had its fair share of modern refinements, it still paled in comparison to the life Sherlock led here at Kensington Palace. 

“I gather you are well, John, given the fact that you have advanced your career quite significantly since we last met?” 

Small talk. Sherlock was making small talk. It seemed incongruous, and maddening, but it would also be impolite not to answer. John set down his cup on its saucer. “Yes, they needed an old cripple like me to look after the hospital.”

Sherlock snorted. “You are not old, nor hardly a cripple. Although, I imagine you feel occasional discomfort from your injury. At least you haven’t gone back to using that dreadful cane, I see.”

“I couldn’t be bothered replacing it,” John quipped with a shrug, then felt rather immature for brushing off Sherlock’s kind enquiries with sarcasm. “In all seriousness, though, I am well, Sherlock. Thank you." John hesitated a moment before continuing. "Can I. . . can I extend my condolences in regards to your father? I realise I'm several months late, but now that I have the opportunity to say it to you directly, I cannot help the urge I feel to offer you. . . comfort." 

Sherlock peered at him for a moment, a question in his eyes that John couldn’t quite work out. “Thank you, John. That is very kind. The last few months have been. . . trying. We’ve just got back, actually—we stayed on at Windsor following the funeral.”

John nodded in understanding, it was only natural that they would spend a period of time away to grieve in private. Sherlock looked visibly uncomfortable with the topic of his father, however, so John attempted to steer the conversation in another direction. 

“How long have you been living here, instead of—” his brain tripped over the words he was about to say, suddenly remembering the impossible feeling of his first and only visit there “—Buckingham Palace, I mean?” he asked, helping himself to one of the small sandwiches from the silver tray.

“Not long. I moved in just before Christmas,” he answered, bypassing the sandwiches and selecting a raspberry-topped petit four. “After Mycroft’s wedding, it seemed expedient to find my own quarters, since he would one day be king and Buckingham Palace would be his. Little did we know that day would be quite so soon.”

“When’s the coronation?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Not for some time yet. I imagine this time next year, but I try to stay out of any of the details. Mummy has thrown herself into supporting Mycroft’s transition, and Margaret is thrilled by the elevation, of course, but I am superfluous to their planning.” 

“And how is Mycroft coping with being king?” John felt that it might be impertinent to ask, but he was curious, and doubted Sherlock would call him out on such a thing. 

With a wave of his hand, Sherlock replied, “Mycroft has been ready to be king since he could first say the word. If I had not spent my childhood with him, I would think he had been a dull old man for the entirety of his life.”

Although nothing seemed to have changed between the royal siblings on the surface, John could detect traces of pride and fondness in Sherlock’s tone. Maybe they had reached an understanding in the intervening years, helped along by the passing of their father.

“He was rather determined to ruin our fun,” John agreed.

A bright smile unfurled across Sherlock’s face. “It was quite a night, wasn’t it, John?”

“The most ridiculous night of my life.”

They sat grinning at each other, hints of mirth bubbling in the air around them. And just like that, John felt that they were once again running through London, laughing at the thrill of the adventure; just the two of them against the world. 

It was a dangerous thought. He could feel himself succumbing to Sherlock’s intoxicating presence, ready to run, fight or laugh with the slightest indication from the man opposite him. Sherlock’s gravitational pull would be too strong and John would be too willingly trapped in his orbit. But that could only end in heartache.

A memory flashed across his mind and he saw himself standing in the middle of the road outside the hospital, watching Sherlock drive away on that warm June day. He had known it was the right choice, to say a final goodbye and draw a line under that time together, but he had been pained by it, and in the days following, his chest had ached and his traitorous limp had returned. He sat back in his chair, all too sure that he could end up in a similar state if he wasn’t careful right now.

“Sherlock,” he said, all levity abandoning him. “Why am I here? Why did you write to me?”

Across from him, Sherlock shifted in his seat and adjusted the leg of his perfectly-pressed trousers, recrossing his legs slowly and avoiding John’s gaze. Finally, he looked up, a faint flush colouring his cheeks, and said, “I saw you. During the funeral procession. I saw you and needed to write to you.”

“No, you didn’t.” John stated, more fiercely than he intended.

“Pardon?”

“See me. You didn’t see me, Sherlock. You never even looked my way. I watched you as you rode through Piccadilly. Hell, I never took my eyes off you, and you didn’t look my way!”

“I have excellent peripheral vision.”

This drew a startled laugh from John. He shook his head and stared hard at his teacup, anywhere but at Sherlock.

“And I would know you anywhere.” The admission landed heavily between them, and John didn’t dare look up from his study of the cup in his hands. Sherlock swiftly continued. “I wanted to write you immediately, but with journeying to Windsor and having so much to do before and after the funeral it was impossible. I vowed to write to you when returned to London and. . . and that is what I did.”

“Oh.”

John felt dazed, and it must have showed on his face because Sherlock’s expression shifted and he set down his teacup.

“Would you like to see the gardens?”

The question was such an abrupt shift in topic that it only added to John’s sense of having fallen down the rabbit hole. Stupidly, he nodded and said, “That would be lovely.”

Sherlock rose from his chair and John followed, leaving behind the remainder of his cold tea. 

At the bottom of the staircase that John had climbed just an hour earlier, there was a set of stained-glass French doors leading out to a walled garden south of the palace. As they stepped outside, the sunshine greeted them, warming the sheltered space to such a degree that one might think summer had arrived indeed. 

The garden itself hosted a web of manicured paths, curling through beds for flowers and carefully trimmed shrubbery. A few mature trees were planted along the east and west walls so as to allow as much sunshine as possible to reach the plants below. It was clearly well planned and tended. 

“They’re not as resplendent as in early summer when every bud is in bloom, but you get a sense of the garden. This was my favourite part of visiting this house as a child; the gardens were always mine.”

They wandered amongst the trees and flowerbeds, Sherlock pointing out interesting specimens, discussing the alterations he would like to make to the layout to better control the soil composition, all the while regaling John with stories of his youth. John would make an occasional comment or ask a question, but mostly he was happy to listen to Sherlock talk.

Eventually, Sherlock began asking questions in return, enquiring interestedly about the hospital and its inner workings. John found himself divulging more and more about his work, while Sherlock nodded along. He was attentive and easy to talk to, but there was an intensity about him that frightened John. 

The temperature dropped as the sun sank lower in the sky and John shivered. Of course, it didn’t escape Sherlock’s keen, observational eye and he turned them back towards the french doors. John reached out to open them, but Sherlock beat him to it in a bizarre reversal of roles. He smiled shyly at John and gestured him forward into the welcoming warmth of the foyer. 

John started through the door but came to an abrupt halt when Sherlock’s hand settled on the small of his back. The warmth of Sherlock’s palm felt like a brand, searing him with such a strong feeling of desire that John could hardly stand it. He tucked his chin, trying to suppress the shudder that was threatening to overtake his body. He found himself wanting to curl into Sherlock’s embrace, right there in the garden. The irony of being presented with such a temptation in this lush, beautiful garden did not escape him. 

It had only been a momentary pause, but John had to force his feet to move again and leave behind those rogue thoughts there on the doorstep. They retraced their steps back up to the parlour and Sherlock led them to a pair of armchairs situated in front of the fireplace. John sat, still all too aware of the feeling of Sherlock’s hand upon his back long after Walters had brought through a fresh pot of tea. 

They sipped their tea in silence, John’s mind still occupied by what-ifs. Eventually, he set down his empty cup on the side table, careful to place it on its saucer so as not to leave behind any marks on the fine wood. The clock on the mantel showed quarter to six. Dinner would be served at the hospital soon and he should probably be there to help with the evening’s duties. Reluctantly, he rubbed his hands on his thighs and said, “It's getting late. I should probably get going.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. “Or you could stay?”

At the sound of Sherlock’s voice, a shiver ran through him and John released a nervous chuckle. “You don't have things to be getting on with? Experiments or some royal business?”

“No, nothing pressing. Stay.”

“For dinner?”

“For as long as you want - for dinner, for the night. . .” Sherlock paused and fiddled with his teacup before looking up through his lashes, “Forever.”

John gaped at him, shocked.

Sherlock’s eyes were imploring. “I mean it, John. Stay with me.” 

“Oh, God,” John whispered, his heart in his throat. “Yes.”

At his breathless acceptance, Sherlock looked surprised, like he had planned a categorical list of all the reasons why John should stay. But John didn’t require any convincing because the look of sheer longing that Sherlock had given him was enough to push aside any doubts. Just as it had been on V-E Day, John was easily swept away by this man. 

John fizzed with anticipation as Sherlock set down his teacup and slid out of his chair, settling on one knee next to John. He was so close that John could see the mesmerising patterns of colour that swirled through Sherlock’s irises like galaxies in the heavens. With a raised eyebrow and a warm hand on his forearm, John was helpless to resist the pull of the other man, happily flinging himself into Sherlock’s gravity once again, lips colliding with breathless wonder. 

When he set off to return to the hospital the next morning, it was as though the world had taken on a rosy glow, everything saturated with warmth and affection. John whistled as he walked, giddy and full of love.


End file.
